“We are trying to assess what happened tonight, and I’d greatly appreciate your cooperation.”
“Haven’t I always freely given my cooperation to you … Reggie?” Julian asked.
Iregi “Reggie” Kamau, the leader of the African Special Forces, known as ASF in military circles, glared back at him, unable to hide his disdain and anger over the informal greeting in front of his team.
“Give us a moment,” Reggie directed the soldiers.
Julian waited until they were standing alone, out of earshot of the rest of the ASF special agents. Iregi Kamau had been recruited at the inception of the creation of the group. Julian’s SEAL team had the displeasure of training the ungrateful and arrogant new agents.
Reggie said, “Are the SEALs encroaching on my territory without following the prescribed protocols? You are supposed to alert me if you are active in any area under ASF jurisdiction.”
“You mean the protocols Itaught youwhen you were first recruited to lead the group? No protocols were broken. I’m not here on a SEAL mission,” Julian responded.
“You expect me to believe that?” Reggie spat the words through gritted teeth, keeping his voice low and out of earshot of his men. “How did you know that the boy had a bomb strapped to his body underneath his coat? My team interviewed all the guests. No one noticed anything out of order. You were the first to go after him even though no one else recognized the waiter as a threat. You must have had some intel.”
“I don’t need intel. I’m a SEAL trained, ex-special ops soldier. The signs were all there,” Julian said.
“Ex-soldier?” Reggie asked.
“Look, the kid was nervous, younger than the other wait staff. His clothes were too bulky on his skinny frame. He’d been sweating the entire night, soaking through his clothes, but only the sleeves of his jacket were damp. Why wasn’t his entire jacket drenched with sweat? I decided to find out, so I moved in on him,” Julian explained.
Reggie asked, “If you’re not in the SEALs anymore, then why are you here?”
“I work private security for Timothy Irungu. Are we done?” Julian asked.
Glaring, Reggie pushed past him and walked toward the agents loitering near the intersection of the alley and the main thoroughfare.
“Julian! Julian!” Mena’s words floated from behind him.
“Miss, you cannot be back here!” a special agent yelled.
Julian turned in time to see Mena being forced backward by one of the ASF agents. Pulse jumping, Julian rushed toward the road, jerking the agent away from Mena. Julian glared at Reggie. The leader of the ASF gave a quick nod, and the agent backed away, leaving Julian standing alone in front of Mena.
“You’re shaking,” Julian whispered into her hair as he pulled her into a tight embrace.
“Don’t worry about me,” Mena said, then slapped her hands against his chest. “And don’t pull anything like that ever again!”
“Ouch, that hurt,” Julian said, smiling at Mena as she tried hard to look stern at him. He looked down at her beautiful face. Wisps of her black hair had come loose from the side ponytail and danced in the breeze.
“I’m serious, Julian. You need to let somebody else be the hero next time,” Mena said, her eyes pleading with him.
“How about … there won’t be a next time,” Julian said.
Mena gave him a brilliant smile. “I like that even better.”
“Come on, let’s go home,” Julian said. He placed his arm around Mena, holding her close as they walked along the sidewalk, past the police barricades. Most of the remaining guests had left the scene. Julian steered Mena around the corner toward the front of the museum.
Blinding flashes popped in his face as a throng of reporters converged on him. Julian gripped Mena’s hand tighter as she looked at him. Her stunned expression matched the emotions rifling through him. Microphones jutted toward him as dozens of reporters shouted questions. A male journalist forced his way forward, “How does it feel to be the hero of the night, Julian Montgomery?”
Chapter Fourteen
The warmth of Julian’s hand clutching hers as he opened the door to their condo was the only thing keeping Mena sane. His touch brought a semblance of normalcy and familiarity in the midst of a night that was most likely going to change their lives forever. The Kenyan journalists had quickly dug up information on Julian from his heroic acts in St. Basil, and the news had hit the internet faster than either of them expected. Her phone hadn’t stopped ringing. Her father, a journalist himself, as well as other family and friends, kept sending text messages, demanding details about the terrorist attack Julian had prevented.
Mena didn’t want to be in the public eye. After Pricilla Dumay had tried to kill her, to protect the case the PIIB and St. Basil police were building against her former boss, Mena had been shielded from much of the media scrutiny. Julian hadn’t been as lucky. Now he was faced with avoiding the press again.
“You okay?” Julian asked as he closed the door behind them, his hand still gripping hers tightly.
Mena shrugged, not trusting herself to talk. Julian had shielded her from the journalists, nearly carrying her through the throng as he dismissed their questions with a concise, “no comment.” The Nairobi police had provided an escort to their condo in the Westlands, where more reporters were camped outside. Mena thanked God they’d chosen a location with top-notch security to protect the residents from unwanted visitors. Slipping into the building through the secured garage, they’d avoided any further interactions with the media. Mena knew that wouldn’t last long.
